AT NATURAL BRIDGE 269 



bird, I say, and take a second look; and 

 then go back and look again. In another 

 tree a parula warbler was singing. About 

 him, by good luck, I made no mistake. As 

 for the other bird, even after I had seen his 

 white breast, his tune with which he was 

 literally spilling over continued to sound 

 amazingly Nashvillian ; though there are 

 few warbler songs with which I should have 

 supposed myself more thoroughly acquainted 

 than with this same clearly characterized 

 Nashville ditty, a hurried measure fol- 

 lowed by a still more hurried trill. Perhaps 

 this particular cerulean had a note pecul- 

 iarly his own. I should be glad to think 

 so. Perhaps, on the other hand, the fault 

 was all with the man who heard it ; in which 

 case the less said the better. In either 

 event, my theory as to the cerulean's com- 

 monness was in a fair way to be verified. 

 It was well I had that comfort. 



Before I could get down the hill again 

 I must stop to listen to a gnatcatcher's 

 squeaky voice, and the next moment I saw 

 the bird, and another with him. The sec- 

 ond one proceeded immediately to a nest, 

 conspicuously displayed on an oak branch, 



